


Sway

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [10]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-19
Updated: 2004-08-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Sway

Between the vicissitudes of temperament, time and Pox, Jack Shaftoe had retained little of the wisdom he'd suckled with his mother's milk; but he knew better than to pass up the opportunity to sleep, whenever and wherever it might present itself, and Captain Jack Sparrow's hanging cot -- swaying dramatically with the impact of each fresh, foam-crested wave, mirroring each bitter gust of Arctic gale, as the _Black Pearl_ weathered the evening storm and fought her way south to the Straits of Dover -- was a small, comforting oasis of calm and quietude in the midst of the turmoil that surrounded Jack; since his involuntary embarkation, several days past, in the Pool of London, he'd been without purpose or direction, wandering the ship and mixing with her company in a way that would have been foolhardy in the extreme back in his stowaway days, when he'd sneaked aboard one ship or another as it made ready to sail from London or Bristol or Portsmouth, bound for some far, exotic port (all of which had turned out, inevitably, to be peopled with the same general types that Jack Shaftoe had encountered in London Town; beggars, lackwits, whores and ruffians were the same the world over, though the colour of their skins, and the flavour of their oaths, might differ according to local practice): in the course of his career as a stowaway, of course, Jack had discovered all the places on a ship where a flexible, unfussy fellow might escape notice until Old England had dropped out of sight (often veiled in rain) beneath the sternward horizon, but here on the _Black Pearl_ \-- where he'd been _brought_ aboard, blind and daft, without much say in the matter, and certainly without being offered the option of turning around and heading back down the gangplank -- no one had seemed to care much, those first few days, where he sat, or ate (they'd fed him well enough, at least) or slept, and once he'd found himself a warmish nook behind the galley-stove he'd thought his place settled, though he'd felt superfluous still; but Captain Sparrow, it seemed, would have Jack sleep (or, perhaps, _wake_ ) the long night through in his own tiny, close cabin; and so Jack found himself here in Sparrow's hanging cot, drifting in and out of sleep as the _Black Pearl_ rocked him like some mad maternal spirit, surrounded by the warm, spicy, musky smell of another man's bed -- oh, but when the bed was Jack Sparrow's, that smell evoked memories enough to direct Jack Shaftoe's dreams along the most salacious of courses, into acutely sensual vignettes that were no less erotic for their innocent (" _innocent_ ", thought Jack incredulously, amused by the notion as applied to himself) vagueness -- and wallowing in a sea of hazy lust that, though warmer and more welcoming by far than the storm-churned estuary that hammered the hull a few inches from his head, was no less tempestuous; for the image of Jack Sparrow, curled around him, touching him as close and sweet as any woman ever had, and then touching him _closer_ , transmuted itself by some Alchemy to the image of him tormenting and tantalising Sparrow, proving to the pirate that the absence of one anatomickal element -- however vital and significant it might seem, however apparently essential to such endeavours -- did not preclude Jack Shaftoe from the expression of lust, or the bestowal of various favours of a definitively carnal nature upon a willing, eager and writhing companion; and if that companion happened to have a rakeish, gold-trimmed smile, and eyes as black as Hell and twice as full of wickedness, and be -- oh, now, Jack, never forget this -- a _man_ , a pirate captain and more your match than any maid you ever met ... then all the better; for, paradox and puzzle though it might be, Jack Shaftoe could no longer deny (even to himself) that while, in one sense, he was still storm-wracked and directionless, in another way he'd found a place to be; perhaps that place was not _literally_ Jack Sparrow's bed (though, burrowing deeper beneath the sheets and blankets and bolsters, Jack found himself quite content to wait out the storm, at least, in Sparrow's cot) but in a place that was defined as being within the orbit of Jack Sparrow's swaying, blazing, unstill self; and Jack, half-sleeping, smiled at the thought -- and was jolted wide-awake by the abrupt halt of the cot's wide, gentle swing: the ship, he realised, was pitching less vigorously now, and the waves that battered the _Pearl_ must be mere foothills, rather than the earlier Alps; and there was cold air, and rain -- rain? -- in the small, gloomy cabin; and Captain Jack Sparrow was hanging over Jack, holding back a mass of dripping black hair with one hand, his other hand -- having caught the cot-chain above Jack's head -- now holding it still; and he was looking down on Jack hungrily, as Jack blinked sleepily up at him, and -- he could neither resist the impulse, nor imagine any good reason for so doing -- smiled more broadly, more sweetly, than before; futile, really, to deny that he was pleased to see Jack Sparrow returned from the storm, or to deny Sparrow the pleasure of seeing Jack's response, and anyway Sparrow was smiling back at him, the ravening want of the previous moment tempered by good humour and sharpened by some devilish impulse; "I can't help but notice, Mr Shaftoe," he said, "that you're wearing clothes," and, "Aye," said Jack, striving for the innocence he'd so recently discovered in himself; but innocence, of course, did not thrive in Captain Jack Sparrow's presence, and Jack feared that his expression spoke rather of _Experience_ , albeit with an emphasis on his desire to have a great deal more of it; and then, "well," said Sparrow, "I don't allow any manner of garment to be sported in my bed, though I'll let you off the fearsome penalties consequent on --" but Jack, no doubt Imp-ridden, interjected artlessly, "fearsome penalties, Captain?" and Sparrow laughed out loud; tilted the cot; tipped Jack Shaftoe, swearing, to his feet, and had his cold, wet hands on Jack's sleep-warm skin before Jack's distracted mind could 'compass a complaint; and though Jack Sparrow's hands were as cold as the deep sea depths, his mouth against Jack's was hot and vividly alive, and Jack got his own hands inside the Captain's coat, stripping and peeling off the wet layers until Sparrow's cold flesh was resurrecting itself against his own body, all the while kissing and tasting and biting, savouring the sweet-salt ocean taste and the underlying tang of sweat, tar and rum; and Sparrow's cold-clumsied hands were easing Jack out of his borrowed breeches; and the two of them were naked together at last, illuminated for one another's eager gazes by the guttering lantern that hung from the cross-beam, their temperatures equalising and their ambitions already in accord: then Sparrow caught Jack around the waist, pulling him close from knee to neck, and toppled them both onto the wildly-swaying cot; and though the chains groaned, they did not break.


End file.
